~ “…where absence is presence.” ~

A voice propped open at my side as I begin to write,

writing towards another, burrowing deeper into the page. You stand

at the edges, beyond my vision. No windows looking

onto the soul – just floral curtains, Persian rug, a salt shaker on the kitchen table.

Eyes are only to catch and lose light, or perhaps to read a book you loved,

to touch you. Find myself in your house, held by your walls – bone against bone, vertebrae

stretched apart. Both of us smooth with longing – not for having,

but for leaning into – or out of your windows, already open

though it has started to rain and my hair gets wet, drops threading

down my cheeks, shaking loose when I duck inside, press myself

to the hardwood floor, lie still. Without turning on a lamp,

while darkness fills silences in raining, my fingers study the map texture of the room,

plaster countries unnamed, rivers flowing south to pool around my house, flood

my body. Keep transcribing ripples – the shake of glass in doors

slamming, tremor of stairs at footsteps going out.